As though guilty at tarrying too long, the young man turned away from the lights bobbing up and down on the river and set off for home, looking back once more before slipping his cold hands into his tattered overcoat and hurrying back along the deserted lane.
Chapter Eight
Rachel awoke early on Sunday morning and came down to the stone-floored scullery to light the gas over the large iron kettle. A few minutes later Carrie walked into the room and smiled sleepily at her daughter. ‘I’ve ’ad a restless night,’ she yawned.
Rachel sat down at the table and clasped her hands in her lap. ‘Well, I reckon we’ll know terday, Mum,’ she said quietly.
Carrie sighed deeply. ‘I would fink so,’ she replied.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and then Nellie walked into the scullery to join them.
‘Don’t tell me, Mum, yer didn’t sleep very well,’ Carrie said, a smile on her face.
Nellie tightened the wrap round her and sat down in a chair. ‘I don’t fink I got a wink o’ sleep all night, what wiv the storm an’ the news,’ she said croakily. ‘They said we’ll know terday, Gawd ’elp us.’
Rachel turned out the gas jet and poured the boiling water into the teapot. ‘Derek’s gettin’ a ship soon,’ she said, stirring the tea. ‘I’m expectin’ a letter any day now.’
‘’E’ll get leave before ’e goes, though, won’t ’e?’ Nellie asked.
‘’E’s due fer seven days’ leave, Gran.’
At that moment Joe came into the scullery scratching his tousled hair and yawning widely. ‘I couldn’t sleep a wink last night,’ he groaned, leaning against the open door.
The two younger women laughed and Carrie stood up. ‘I’d sit down if I were you,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘I’m gonna put the wireless on. There may be some news.’
Maudie, Sadie and Maisie sipped tea at the Sullivan house and Maudie had a worried look on her face. ‘I didn’t want ter say nuffink while Ernest was ’ere, but they’ve opened the crypt at the church fer a casualty clearin’ station,’ she informed them.
‘I saw the police an’ a warden comin’ out o’ that shelter late last night,’ Maisie added. ‘I ’ad ’alf a mind ter say somefink but I changed me mind. They wouldn’t tell yer nuffink anyway.’
‘The monastery, yer mean?’ Sadie said with a crooked smile on her lined face.
Maisie looked peeved. ‘I ’ope we don’t ever ’ave ter use the place,’ she said fearfully.
Maudie had decided to be brave, come what may. ‘Well, if we do ’ave to, it’ll be a lot better than sittin’ in these places. A good shakin’ an’ the ’ole lot’ll fall down round our ears.’
Sadie and Maisie exchanged glances at their friend’s unusual forthrightness. ‘I’ll put the wireless on,’ Sadie said as she got up, ‘there may be some news.’
In the back yard, Fred Dougall, Ernest Mycroft and Daniel Sullivan were discussing the war crisis. ‘They’re makin’ a big fing about these gas masks,’ Ernest said. ‘I don’t reckon they’ll ever use poison gas.’
‘They used it in the last war,’ Daniel told him.
‘Yeah, but it wasn’t used ter that extent,’ Ernest persisted. ‘I fink the Germans ended up gassin’ ’alf their own blokes, what wiv the wind changin’. Besides, they’ll get it back in double doses if they ever did use it, yer can bet yer life.’
The other two elderly men nodded in agreement and Fred pointed to the chicken coop. ‘ ’Ere, Daniel, is that a Rhode Island Red?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘It’s a bloody crossbred, if yer ask me,’ he growled. ‘I got it down Club Row. The bloke said it was a prize bird, but it ain’t bin doin’ much treadin’ wiv my lot of’ens. Four bloody eggs we got last week an’ two of ’em was only the size of a pea. I tell yer what though, the bleeder must wake the ’ole street up wiv ’is cock-a-doodlin’. My Sadie reckons she’s gonna wring its neck if it keeps on the way it is. The ovver day she said ter me, “ ’Ere, Dan, that bird’s jus’ like you, all talk an’ no do”.’
Ernest chuckled and leaned against the lavatory door. ‘I bin’avin’ a bit of a ding-dong wiv me ole woman,’ he said. ‘Well, not exactly a ding-dong but more like a difference of opinion. Yer see, she reckons we should go an’ live wiv ’er sister in Kent. She’s got the ’ouse to ’erself since ’er ole man died, an’ Maud reckons we’d be better orf out o’ Bermon’sey if the bloody balloon does go up. I told ’er I ain’t budgin’ but she can go if she wants to. Blimey, I couldn’t live wiv ’er sister. She’s a right scatty mare an’ more nervous than our Maudie. I’d be a bundle o’ nerves meself if I ’ad ter live wiv the both of ’em.’
Fred and Daniel grinned as they exchanged glances, and then they heard Sadie calling out. ‘The Prime Minister’s speakin’ at quarter past eleven.’
‘Well, we’ll soon be put out of our misery, mates,’ Daniel remarked.
In the house in Tyburn Square, George Galloway sat in the large front room overlooking the square. The sun’s rays shone down onto the faded carpet and the black-leaded grate. Mrs Duffin the housekeeper had been in that morning and left the old man a cold lunch of cheese salad and pickles. Mrs Duffin had little to say. She would whisk round the place, leaving it spotlessly clean, and then prepare a midday or evening meal as required. She lived nearby and had been a good friend of Nora Flynne, George Galloway’s previous housekeeper, and having been well versed in the likes and dislikes of the old man, she had so far managed not to antagonise him.
Now, as he sat alone in the house, George ruminated gloomily. It only seemed a short time since the last war, he thought. It had been a Sunday morning then, when the military called to tell him his elder son Geoffrey had been killed in action on the Somme.
He stood up and stamped his foot on the floor in an attempt to get the blood flowing again and then he walked over to the wireless cabinet and opened the doors. For a short while he twiddled with the knobs and then the high-pitched oscillation faded and the clear tones of a theatre organ rang out. He sat down again to await the Prime Minister, glancing at the decanter standing on the small table at his elbow. Normally he would not have a whisky until midday but this morning George decided that the situation called for an early, stiff drink.
Across the River Thames, in a quiet and leafy avenue on the edge of Ilford, Frank Galloway was reading the Sunday papers with a miserable expression on his fleshy face. He had had a bad week’s racing and owed the bookmakers a tidy sum, and to add to that his wife Bella had been ill tempered and moaning at him at the least excuse. His daughter Caroline had been very testy lately too, and he was of the opinion that she should find herself a young man and flee the nest, preferably as soon as possible.
Bella was in the bedroom, still clad in a flowered wrap and with her hair swept up into a knotted white towel. She was in her mid-forties and beginning to look every bit her age. Her once beautiful face was lined around the eyes and mouth and her complexion was marked with patches of red on her cheekbones. Her blue eyes were puffy and she wore an irritated expression. War would certainly mean the closing of all the theatres in London, she reasoned, and her agent Hymie Golding had been less than helpful in finding work for her. What was worse, Barry Herrington had not been in touch and the rumour was that he had been seeing a young starlet lately. In addition to these tribulations, Caroline had come home very late the previous evening and boldly announced that she had finished with Desmond Controy. ‘After all the hard work I’ve put in to get the two of them together,’ Bella sighed to herself. After all, Desmond was progressing well in the theatre and there was talk of his getting a film part very shortly. True, a war would slow down his career but he had a good future, and he was short-sighted, a condition which would keep him out of uniform. Caroline was stupid to end the relationship, Bella fumed.
Frank put down the newspaper and leaned back on the settee. The last few weeks had been very trying for him. There had been masses of paperwork to get through and two of his drivers had decided to volunt
eer for the services. The war crisis had thrown everything into chaos. Nothing was clear at the moment regarding the transport; there was talk of a motor pool being set up to handle essential supplies, and the existing contracts hung in the balance. His liaison with Peggy Harrison was very shaky at the moment too. Some of the excitement had waned, and Peggy appeared to be blaming herself for her husband’s illness. The shock of finding out about their affair on top of other problems concerning his business had caused his mind to snap, and Theo was now in a mental hospital with little likelihood of ever recovering.
Frank’s thoughts were interrupted as Bella walked into the room and motioned to the wireless. ‘Hadn’t you better put it on?’ she said irritably. ‘The Prime Minister’s speaking in five minutes.’
A strange stillness had settled over London as the sun climbed up into a cloudless sky. In the riverside borough of Bermondsey the quietness was broken by a tug whistle as it took up the strain on a brace of barges. Page Street and the neighbouring streets were deserted as everyone gathered round their wireless sets to hear the Prime Minister’s broadcast.
The tired, flat voice of Neville Chamberlain carried out through open windows: ‘I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at Ten Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador handed the German Government a final note, stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this country is at war with Germany . . .’
Even before the Prime Minister had finished speaking folk were coming out into the street to talk with their neighbours. They huddled in little groups, occasionally turning their worried faces skyward, as though expecting an enemy air armada to appear at once. Others hurried along backstreets to their friends and scattered families, all anxious, fearful of the unknown and eager to seek comfort with those they loved.
At the Dawson household Dennis and Leslie were searching through their boxes of lead soldiers, Joyce was sitting in one corner talking to her one-eyed doll, while Dolly sat with her ear glued to the fading wireless, listening to the Prime Minister and occasionally waving frantically for the two boys to be quiet. Wallace was sitting in the back yard, his large feet resting on an empty beer crate, his face turned towards the warm sun. Suddenly a loud wailing started up, its rising and falling tone growing to a crescendo, and then it died away.
‘Quick! It’s an air raid!’ Dolly screamed, grabbing up her daughter and shepherding her boys out of the house.
Wallace had hurried in, troubled by the unfamiliar noise, and he shuffled behind the rest of the family as they dashed along to the shelter on the elbow of Page Street, with people joining them on the way. Maudie appeared from her house on the arm of her husband, and Sadie Sullivan came trotting along beside Maisie. Fred and Daniel followed behind their wives and an ARP warden waved them down the gently sloping path into the entrance. Granny Massey slipped and was held up by her two daughters. Charlie Alcroft came down the slope in his carpet slippers, and the Mortimers from Bacon Buildings came hurrying along with their tribe of children swarming around them, the smallest hanging on to Ada Mortimer’s shabby coat. Bringing up the rear was the Casey family. Ada Casey was a mousy-haired woman in her late thirties and with a cast in her left eye. She was a head taller than her husband Tom, a wiry individual in his forties with close-cropped hair and ears that stood out boldly. Two of the three children had casts in their left eyes, which had earned the family the unfortunate distinction of being known as the ‘cross-eyed Caseys’.
Last to come into the shelter were the three Salter girls, looking around anxiously as they sat down together on a bench near the door.
‘Where’s that bloody farvver of ours got to?’ Brenda Salter growled to her younger sister.
‘Gawd knows,’ Lily replied, smiling sweetly at the staring Ada Casey.
‘’E’s still up the Kings Arms, that’s fer sure,’ Barbara Salter cut in sharply.
‘Just wait till ’e shows ’is face in ’ere, I’ll give ’im what for,’ Brenda said with venom. ‘’E knows ’ow we worry over ’im.’
‘Give ’im a chance, Brenda,’ Lily cut in. ‘We’ve only just got’ere ourselves.’
Brenda gave her younger sister a disdainful look. ‘Anybody else would be out o’ the pub like a rocket, but not our farvver. If the bleedin’ place was burnin’ round ’is ears ’e’d still finish ’is pint.’
Suddenly the much maligned Maurice Salter slipped into the shelter, and as he caught sight of his three daughters he shook his head slowly before slumping down beside them. ‘I knew it, I just knew it,’ he said with emphasis.
‘Knew what?’ Brenda asked irritably.
‘I knew yer’d all run out an’ leave the gas on,’ Maurice replied. ‘I could ’ave bin killed runnin’ back ter the ’ouse ter check. Didn’t I warn you silly mares? Didn’t I tell yer only the ovver night what could ’appen if yer leave the gas on?’
The three Salter girls looked shamefacedly at him and Lily patted his hand. ‘It’s a good job we’ve got you ter look after us, Dad,’ she purred.
Brenda and Barbara exchanged meaningful glances and Maurice settled down on the bench with a self-satisfied look on his broad face.
‘Jus’ remember in future. Yer can’t be too careful wiv gas,’ he said smugly, as he leaned his back against the damp concrete wall.
The shelter construction took the general shape of a wide tunnel, separated into two galleries by a thick concrete wall running down the whole length. The local ARP wardens had arranged with the police that the Bacon Street inhabitants should use the left-hand shelter and Page Street folk the righthand one, so that should there be a direct hit on the shelter, identification would be that much easier.
Sadie had other ideas, however. ‘’Ere, Mais, did yer ’ear that copper tellin’ the Bacon Buildin’s mob ter go in the ovver shelter?’ she asked as she made herself comfortable on the hard wooden bench against the wall.
‘Yeah, I thought it was strange,’ Maisie replied, scratching her left ear.
‘It’s ter keep us from arguin’,’ Sadie told her. ‘There’s one or two nasty so-an’-so’s live in those buildin’s an’ they might start trouble.’
‘What, like that Casey family?’ Maisie ventured.
Sadie shook her head. ‘Nah. They’re a nice family,’ she replied. ‘Ada Casey’s as good as gold. Mind you I ain’t got much time fer that lazy git of an ’usband of ’ers. ’E’s always orf sick, accordin’ to Ada.’
‘What’s ’e do fer a livin’?’ Maisie asked.
‘As little as possible. ’E’s a tram driver,’ Sadie told her.
Maudie was sitting quietly, her ears pricked for the sound of falling bombs; whenever her friends looked in her direction she gave them a brave smile.
The last arrival walked into the gloomy, kerosene-lit interior and squeezed into the only available space, beside Brenda Massey, further along the cavern where she sat with her mother and sister.
‘Yer Annie’s ’usband Billy, ain’t yer?’ Brenda asked the sleepy-eyed newcomer.
Billy nodded, brushing a hand over his dishevelled hair. ‘I slept late. The bloody siren frightened the life out o’ me,’ he grinned.
Brenda laughed nervously. She was an attractive brunette of forty with smiling eyes and prominent white teeth. ‘My name’s Brenda, an’ that’s me sister Rose,’ she said. ‘I ’ad a right job wiv Mum. She didn’t want ter come down the shelter. It’s a good job Rose was visitin’. She ’elped me get ’er out the ’ouse. Rose’s two boys are evacuated an’ ’er bloke’s in the navy.’
Billy smiled at the friendly woman. ‘Are you married?’ he asked.
Brenda nodded. ‘My ole man’s in the merchant navy. We’aven’t got any children,’ she replied.
Billy glanced around at the rows of anxious people chatting nervously. There were four rows of seating, long
benches arranged along each wall and down the centre of the concrete cavern, the people on the middle benches sitting back to back. There was a strong smell of carbolic in the air and the temperature was rising steadily. Billy looked up at the ceiling. There were two small vents spaced some distance apart and he could see the smoky fumes from the kerosene lamps wafting up through them.
Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child Page 10
